


Those You Love

by hailsatanstyles



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: AU, Angst, Character Death???, Dystopia, Fluff, Homophobia, M/M, Supernatural Illnesses, Teacher Harry, Temporary Amnesia, Zombies, activist louis, and this is a critical look at american healthcare pretty much, but not really since this is a 'zombie' fic, but they're not really zombies... more like In The Flesh, in the flesh - Freeform, larry - Freeform, so don't get too sad, the virus is an allegory for AIDS basically
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-02
Updated: 2015-03-02
Packaged: 2018-03-15 23:26:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3465926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hailsatanstyles/pseuds/hailsatanstyles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s a Monday morning when it happens. Something that Harry never thought would happen to him. Not in his own home. Not in his own relationship. But it does, and it knocks the air out of his lungs.</p><p>-</p><p>Or: The one where a contagious, yet treatable virus causes patients to die and reanimate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Those You Love

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally a short story I wrote for my pop culture course, where Harry and Louis were actually a lesbian couple named Catherine and Ashley. Afterwards I figured it would make a decent fic, so I changed the names and pronouns and here we are. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy. x

 

The textbook definition of love is to feel another’s pain as much as you would your own. It’s slaving over a pot of homemade chicken noodle soup when their nose is stuffy and red. It’s the fond look that etches across your face when you hear them singing their favorite song in the shower. It’s lazy mornings nursing cups of tea on the couch, legs tangled together. Love isn’t defined by a piece of paper, or a priest. Love is the ring that burned a hole in your pocket every weekend for a month until you found the absolute perfect time to promise forever to the person you couldn’t imagine a day without.

 

Harry loves the way the sunlight glints off of the platinum band that rests on Louis’s dainty finger.  He doesn’t think he’ll ever get tired of seeing his sleepy smile and mussed nest of sandy-blonde hair each morning. Or how he feels so passionately about everything.

The morning news is droning as they shovel forkfuls of banana pancakes into their mouths.

 

“You know,” Louis starts, “this is all bullshit.” He gestures with his fork to the news anchor reading the morning’s top stories.

 

“What is?” Harry replies through a mouthful of food.

 

A pointed look is aimed at Harry that tells him he hasn’t quite put the pieces together yet, but he should have.

 

“All these people are sick, Haz. There’s a cure for this, and not everyone can get it?” He scoffs at the television with a slight shake of his head. “It’s bullshit, is all.”

 

Harry takes a sip of his coffee, noting that it’s lukewarm now. “If you could, you’d make an activist group for the rights of ants, Lou. You need to just let it go. There’s nothing you can do about it.”

 

“But how would you feel if you came down with this and _you_ turned into one of them? It could have been prevented, Haz, and you just sat around saying ‘There’s nothing you can do about it’.” He mocked with a deep frown creasing his eyebrows.

 

“The RP’s are still functioning. They have jobs; they live in houses and sleep in the same beds that they used to. They’re people, but at the same time, they’re just­– you know, not.”

 

Louis huffs a sigh, “I agree… I just wish you cared more about the prevention, babe. RP’s wouldn’t have to exist if everyone could get treatment. God forbid, someone we care about one day gets sick and they’re denied, what happens then?” Harry reaches to gently tuck a strand of Louis’s shaggy hair behind his ear with a sad smile.

 

“If it’ll ease your mind, I’ll try to care more, okay?”

 

Harry begins clearing the plates and silverware from the table.  He dips down to firmly press his lips against Louis’s forehead.  “Now, don’t you have somewhere to be, pumpkin?”

 

Louis gave a petulant pout and scraped his chair against the tile before standing up.

 

“Should have been a teacher.” He mumbled. “Teaching kids how to count to ten and getting weekends and holidays off seems like a dream.”

 

Harry hooked his chin over Louis’s shoulder. “Last week, Aaron peed his pants on the reading rug. It’s not all pleasant.”

 

“Now, off you go!”

 

With a kiss on the lips and a pat on the bum he’s bolting up the stairs to get ready for work while Harry cleans up the kitchen.

 

 

-

 

 

After years of bouncing around from major to major, Louis graduated with a Liberal Arts degree and no sense of direction.  Journalism was too corrupt, Political Science resembled Philosophy too much, and Social Work didn’t focus enough on the helping aspect. He always joked at family reunions when relatives would inquire what he was going to do with his life that he’d end up in Sierra Leone with the Peace Corps. Whenever he walks through the doors of the local homeless shelter he silently laughs to himself and thinks, _close enough_. All that ‘be the change you want to see in the world’ hippie stuff had appealed to him from a young age.  Sierra Leone was a little far. He’d decided to base himself in a place that meant something to him, some place where he could give back to his own community. Being the Assistant Coordinator provided an inherently fulfilling feeling.

 

Louis is in the back corner of the main entrance, carefully folding the clothing donations of the day while some other volunteers neatly organize them into the assigned boxes.  People are milling about, some workers, some shelter residents, but each one shoots a greeting directly at him. The monotony is broken by a stern voice echoing in the hall.

 

“Excuse me? Excuse me, no Reanimated Persons are allowed in here!”

 

“I wouldn’t be here if– uhm…” The RP looks around at everyone with a trembling chin, “if I didn’t need the help, you know?” The words up-tick on the end when his voice threatens to break.

 

Louis sets down the sweater in his hand and makes his way over to the small group of volunteers with facemasks over their mouths.  They’re gathered around the young man in clothes that are soaked with rainwater.

 

“So, what’d your partner leave you or something after finding out you were infected?” The man’s voice is muffled behind the medical mask.  It’s one of the men who’s expressed multiple times that this disease was created for a reason by God. Something that Louis has fought him on more times than he can count.

 

The RP bursts into tears at that, apparently having suffered through not only the change, but also the abandonment of the person he trusted most in the world. He doesn’t look like the others, with their skin deformed and scabbed.  He’s almost translucent– blue veins showing through the surface, but his skin is smooth as glass.  He was a quick takedown. The high fever probably killed him before anything else could, Louis thought.

 

He lowers his own mask to rest below his chin and puts a hand on his shoulder.

 

“That’s enough. Leave him alone. This is a shelter for people who need it, we don’t turn people away.” He shoots a look at the male volunteer who had snapped at the RP, and puts a hand on the RP’s shoulder. “Distribute masks to those who don’t have any, and I’ll take care of him personally.”

 

With that, the discussion is over and it’s like nothing ever happened. Everyone goes back to milling about, and the volunteers shoot off to the medical supply closet to do as he said. He gives himself a quiet smirk at the power he has over them, but it falters when the RP looks at him with brown eyes that have the telling cataract film over surface, his eyelashes are wet, and bottom lip shaking.

 

“What’s your name, love?” 

 

He uses his flannel sleeve to wipe at his cheeks. If he were of natural being, his cheeks would have flushed with embarrassment at the fact that he’s crying to a complete stranger.  “ ‘M name’s Liam.”

 

“Hello, Liam. I’m Louis. And forget those miserable bastards, alright? I’m the Assistant Coordinator here, and on behalf of the organization I’d like to thank you for coming to us for help.” 

 

He gives a watery smile that doesn’t quite meet his eyes, but it’s a start.

 

“Thank you for being so kind to me.” Liam scuffs his sneaker against the linoleum floor where a puddle has gathered underneath him, like he’s still not sure if he’s welcomed in the shelter.

 

“You’re very welcome. Now, you look cold, how about I get you some new clothes, make you a cup of tea, and you can tell me everything.”

 

He coughs into his elbow, and gives the most genuine smile he’s managed yet. “Alright.”

 

Louis pulls the mask back up to cover his mouth and nose, and leads him towards the clothing storage room. 

 

 

-

 

 

Louis flops onto the bed, face smushed into the pillow, “I mished yew at work today.”

 

He turns over dramatically onto his back, and watches Harry undress in front of the mirror. Unbuttoning his blazer, loosening his tie, piece by piece his skin is revealed.  The elegant lines of his neck, and the mesmerizing way his shoulder blades move under his skin like unfurled angel wings as he pulls his undershirt off has Louis in a haze. He visibly licks his lips with a quick dart of his tongue and Harry tosses a glance over his shoulder at Louis.

 

“Cheeky, aren’t you?”

 

“That teacher fantasy is alive and well with you dressing like that.” Louis sighs, admiring the way his skin tight trouser hug the curve of his bum. “You know you’re dressing for first graders, right?”

 

“I’ve started wearing it more for you, to be honest.”  He replies, unzippering and peeling the fabric away from his mile-long legs.

 

Louis lets out a strangled whine and flexes his hands at Harry, wanting nothing more than his milky skin underneath his fingertips. “Well, it’s working,” He singsongs.

 

Harry slips on his silk robe so it hangs over his chest and makes his way over to the end of the bed, knees dug in deep to the fluffy surface. He reverently traces Louis’s cheek with his fingertip.

 

“I wish you didn’t work so much.”

 

Louis turns his head into the touch, eyes fluttering closed. “These people though–They need me, Haz.”

 

Harry captures Louis’s bottom lip in his own, a slow drag of a kiss. “I need you too, Lou.” He says just above a whisper, puffs of breath warming his mouth.

 

“Yeah,” Louis grumbles and flops back down on the mattress, “need me like a bullet in your head.”

 

His eyebrows scrunch together in concern and follows Louis down, lying parallel to dramatically sprawled body. Always one for theatrics when something was actually bothering him.

 

“What’s this all about then?”

 

He makes a resigned noise and curls into Harry’s arms. Tucked to his chest, safe and warm, Louis decides to bring up what happened at work.  “I met an RP today named Liam, and I just felt so badly for him. He literally had nothing but the clothes on his back.”

 

A hum of acknowledgement rumbles through Harry’s chest.

 

“His boyfriend was a curee, but gave the RP virus to him. Then the bastard _kicked him out of the house_ when he found out he’d turn. He had nothing. It just blows my mind that someone could be so cruel. He was so grateful just to have a cup of tea and some fresh clothes! I can’t even begin to imagine the pain he must feel,” He trails off.

 

“I’m letting him stay in his own part of the shelter, and we’re starting an RP sanction.”

 

Louis can hear the hesitant breath that always accompanies words that Harry isn’t sure will be received well. He pets his hair, “Louis, sweetheart, you can’t save everyone.”

 

There’s a pregnant pause where he audibly swallows the emotion in his throat.

 

“Yeah, but I can try.”

 

 

-

 

It’s a Monday morning when it happens. Something that Harry never thought would happen to him. Not in his own home. Not in his own relationship. But it does, and it knocks the air out of his lungs.

 

He pads around the kitchen, morning light basking the room in a golden hue as he whisks eggs for omelettes. The coffee pot gurgles, and the small television by the dining room table serves as more background noise than actual entertainment. He plates the food and sits at the table, grading (if you could even call it that when it’s a first grader’s work) some projects before he has to leave for the morning.

 

Once he turns his focus from the small stack of papers, his first bite of his omelette is cold. His eyebrows come together as he wonders how much time actually passed since he sat down.  Normally, Louis would be downstairs no more than ten minutes after Harry was finished cooking. He must have turned off his alarm and fell back asleep, Harry thought. Getting up from the table, he curled herself against the railing of the staircase to call up to him.

 

“Food’s ready whenever you are, babe!”

 

He listens for a reply and gets none, not even the slamming of dresser drawers in a mad rush to be on time for work while still getting to eat some breakfast. In fact, it’s almost too quite.

 

Harry makes his way up the stairs and turns right.  Knocking lightly, mouth pressed to the door he says, “You’re going to be late for work, Lou.”

 

There’s a heavy sigh from inside the bedroom. “Stop being lazy and get your a–” He opens the door and the momentum behind his breath ceases existence when he sees Louis.

 

Propped up against the headboard with sweat rolling down his face and pooling in his collarbones, skin exuding an unhealthily rosy complexion. “Babe,” he wheezes weakly, and it breaks Harry out of his spell.  He jumpstarts and rushes to Louis’s side of the bed.

 

“N–No, no, no, go to my bag and get a medical mask.” Louis’s breathing is labored and Harry feels like his heart is going to beat out of his chest.

 

“Okay, yeah. Okay.” His hands are shaking so violently he can hardly get a grip on the zipper of Louis’s backpack. He finds a mask and rips the plastic open, pulling the straps behind his ears, his breath warming his nose in the confined space.

 

Louis’s hair is falling limply over his face and his blue eyes are hooded with fever.

 

“I have to call an ambulance. We have to get you help.” Harry can feel a hysterical tone creeping into his voice. “How long have you been like this?”

 

“I didn’t know.”  He starts crying and weakly shaking his head. “I didn’t know I had it. I’m so sorry.”

 

His hands are fumbling with Louis’s cell phone on the bedside table. The longer the ring back tone signals the more concerned he gets.  Ever since patient X, ambulance and hospital service lines have been congested twenty-four hours a day. But now, it feels like the world might possibly end if someone didn’t pick up soon.

 

“911, what’s your emergency?”

 

“My partner is sick.” His eyes lock with Louis’. “He’s sick with the RP virus. Please–Please, you need to send an ambulance immediately.”

 

From his spot kneeling on the floor next to the bed, he strokes the back of Louis’s hand with his thumb as he gives his address and directs them to where they are in the house. The call ends but his breathing doesn’t get any easier. Louis’s head is rolled back against the headboard, eyes closed.

 

“Oh God.” It’s a small plea, over and over again until he coughs so violently that his palm comes back a violent red. Everything stops, and Louis looks up to Harry with blood smeared on the part of his thin lips, eyes wide.

 

The thought is there, hanging heavy in the air, but it’s not until Louis says it that it becomes a possible reality.

 

“Haz,” he whimpers, “am I going to die?”

 

He puts her forehead to the back of Louis’s palm, quiet tears soaking into the comforter. His inhale rattles through his whole body but it doesn’t give his voice a shred of confidence.

 

“No, baby. You’re so strong. You’re not going to die, the ambulance is on its way and they’ll give you the cure. You’re going to be just fine, and we’re gonna live to be one hundred together, okay?”

 

Louis’s mouth cracks into a weak smile, his teeth are stained with blood and Harry thinks that he’ll probably never unsee this moment.

 

“I’d like that.” Louis wheezes.

 

Harry gives a slightly hysterical chuckle. “Of course you would. Just keep focusing on my voice, baby. N-N-No, eyes open, okay?

 

“Can you talk about the future?”

 

Blood trickles from his nose and follows the curve of his upper lip. Harry has to fight the urge to wipe to mar from his skin with his fingertips.

 

“What’s it–” A harsh cough racks through his lungs, “What’s it gonna be like for us?”

 

At the sound of Harry’s soothing tone, Louis’s eyes flutter. “Well, we’re going to have children– A boy and a girl. The girl will be older, and have that old soul vibe. She’ll play piano and ask us to download apps that’ll teach her how to speak French. The boy will be like you,” His voice cracks and he tries to swallow the lump in his throat. He can see all of this so clearly in his head, “he’ll be mischievous and loud, but kind–”

 

Drowning in this imagined future where children will run around the house during hectic mornings, and their pet dog will chase squirrels in the yard, Harry hardly notices that the emergency technicians arrive. Total white noise encompasses him as he’s being dragged to his feet and away from the bed, while men with special facemasks lift Louis’s body from the bed to the gurney. His eyes are rolled back in his head and his body is convulsing violently.

 

“Jesus, Lou!” He fights out of the grip of the man holding him and grabs his partner’s hand in his. The skin is flaming hot to the touch, “I love you. Please don’t leave me, I love you.”

 

Louis’s hand slips from his grip as the emergency technicians roll the gurney out the door. Harry’s not religious, but he says a silent prayer, hoping that they’re given enough time to live a full life together.  In that moment, he can’t imagine a fate worse than Louis’s death.

 

 

-

 

 

The coolness of the countertop spread slowly through his fingertips, then to his palms, creeping and crisp. It would provide a calming effect if he weren’t red in the face from screaming himself hoarse at the meek nurse behind the desk. “You can’t just _refuse_ treatment! I’m willing to pay out of pocket for the medication. I don’t care if it costs ten thousand fucking dollars, you’re going to save my husband!”

 

“Please, sir, if it were up to me we’d give him the cure for free. No one deserves this. Please, it’s not my choice.”

 

Louis is in a quarantined room in the hospital somewhere, alone and afraid. For all Harry knows, he could be dead already, and he’s standing here bickering with someone with zero stature. Ridiculous. 

 

Louis could already be dead.

 

That stirs something in the pit of his stomach. He takes a moment to close his eyes, trying to regain composure.  Instead, he hiccups out a sob and feels the sadness tidal wave over hs anger, snuffing it out completely; nothing left in its wake except the image of Louis’s unmoving form.

 

When he opens her eyes, the nurse is out of her seat and leaning over the desk to hold Harry’s hand in her own. Her thumb rubs circles into the skin, and her face is open and sweet.

 

“I can’t promise anything, but I can call the Doctor in charge of RPS cases so you can know how he is. It’s the least I can do.”

 

Harry just presses his lips together and nods thankfully. She lets his hands go and pushes the intercom button on the desk.

 

“Paging Dr. Wilco to main reception, Dr. Wilco.” Her meek voice, now stronger and filled with an authoritative tone, echoes through the busy halls. She then turns back to Harry. “She should be here in just a few minutes, have a seat while you wait.”

 

His exhaustion is so bone deep that even the mother with her wailing child sitting beside him doesn’t rattle his nerves. He just stares blankly ahead at the impressionist painting hanging on the wall. Blue and green streaks cascading into one another until it’s blocked out of his vision completely. 

 

Dr. Wilco is a willowy woman with a flowing lab coat and a bun so slick is pulls her eyebrows up in an intimidating fashion. She approaches Harry with an air of indifference.

 

“Mister Styles.” She says formally.

 

Harry stands to see her eye to eye. “Dr. Wilco.” 

 

“I will have you know that Mister Tomlinson is still alive, but it’s imperative that you know that his case is extremely accelerated– Faster than I’ve seen in my whole career. Probably some genetic malfunction, honestly. Sometimes certain genes are weaker and make you more prone to diseases like this, it’s quite unfortunate.” She rambles as if they were chatting about the weather, and not Harry’s husband.

 

“Yes. I get that.” Harry starts, “But what can you _do_ for him?” 

 

“Take him home, Mister Styles. As you know, there’s nothing else we can do for him here with your–” Her dark eyes scan Harry from head to toe, and she’s seen that look almost half his life; he knows exactly what it means, “–situation. I’m sure you’d rather have the events play out in your own home, anyway.”

 

He’s dealt with people who thought he was different, or lesser, before. All in all, it wasn’t something that’s particularly shocking to Harry. But his need to bite his tongue in such a critical moment runs through him like a livewire. If he was always expected to be the polite, emotionless puppet of those around him, how could he ever just let go and let himself _feel_. He breathes through his nose steadily, trying to school his voice into something that could resemble a shade of calm and grabs for the most painfully polite way to excuse himself.

 

“Thank you for your time. I’m going to go get my husband now.”

“He’s on the third floor in isolation. The nurses up there will provide you with a wheelchair for his transportation.”

 

His anger coils deep inside of him, as the heels of his boots angrily tap down the hall. The world had never been fair before, why should it start today?

 

 

-

 

 

The cruelest part of it all was that for their last moments together as HarryandLouis, the bottom half of his face is covered by a medical mask, leaving him unable to kiss Louis’s still warm lips and have him consciously know he’s loved. So Harry talks, trying to make up for all of the time they wouldn’t have.  Focusing on keeping Louis happy and distracted. He’d cried the whole drive home from the hospital, until there was quite literally nothing left.

 

They’re lying on their bed, Louis with his head in Harry’s lap, his fingers twirling through Louis’ strands of hair.  “I never told you this, but I always thought you were so brave. I wanted to be like you when we were younger.”

 

Louis’s breathing is a low rattle, but he hitches on a laugh that causes him to reel into a coughing fit. He looks ashamed that he can’t even show that small gesture of happiness. 

 

“No you didn’t. You–” His voice is weak, and a heavy breath wheezes through his lungs. “You thought I was loud and annoying.”  His eyelids are drooping, and his vision is unfocused, the fever ravaging his body like a wildfire, but his smile is fighting through.

 

“What a lie!” Harry cackles. “No, I’ll never forget it. I was getting harassed by those scumbag guys outside the library, and you were there, smoking a cigarette with your patched up army jacket on, and you got in their faces– a solid foot smaller than them, and just completely embarrassed them until they left me alone.”

 

He nuzzles farther into Harry’s lap with a smile on his face. “Always a little too big for my britches.”

 

“But hilariously honest.  That’s why everyone loved you.” Slowly Harry’s eyes widen in horror realizing that he used the past tense.  His mind had already accepted the fact that this was almost all over.  It would only be a memory.  He wouldn’t come back the same person. He’d be a shell of his original self. 

 

Louis didn’t seem to notice his word choice. He runs her hand over Louis’ arm affectionately, and tries to start again, “Remember what you said to them? I almost _died_ laughing.”

 

Louis lifts his head, hair matted to his forehead with sweat, cheeks flushed an unhealthy pink, but a smirk plastered to his face, “The only way they’d get it was in a circle jerk.”

 

“I just had to have you.”

 

It’s hardly audible but it’s there, “Well, you got me, Hazza.”

 

Warmth spreads through his chest at that, but it’s completely extinguished when he notices that Louis’s bleeding from his nose again, and it’s dripping over the contour of his smile.  His voice is caught in his throat because this has to be the end, and Harry isn’t ready.

 

Louis’ eyebrows pull together and he brings his fingertips to the area, eyes widening at the sight of his bloody fingers.  “I should have known.” He whimpers. “Everything hurts. I should have known it would happen again.” The blood is in his mouth now, teeth stained in each crevice with the threat of death.

 

Harry is stunned into silence. It’s one thing to know death was hovering along the edges like a threatening fog, but to see it and know that any minute the person he loves most in the world could be gone, is unbearable   

 

His hand is reaching for Harry’s face, he caresses her cheek reverently, but his sight is completely unfocused.  Louis’ arm is shaking from the fever. Harry holds his hand against his cheek so he’ll never have to stop feeling loved.

“I’ll come back for you.” Louis sobs, his whole body trembling.  “Not like the others– Never like the others. I’ll be me, I promise.”

 

“No. No, I’m not ready to say goodbye yet. You can’t leave! You can’t leave me here like this– Just waiting for you to open your eyes again. It isn’t _fair_.”  His hand falls limp in Harry’s grasp and his body weighs heavily on him in a way it hadn’t before.  

 

“Lou?” His voice peaks shrilly. “Louis?”

 

Not a puff of breath escapes his parted lips that are shiny with traces of blood. Not an eyelash flutters at Harry’s panic.

 

He hadn’t even gotten to say, “I love you” before the fever took him.

 

He was alone in every sense of the word now. So he screamed. He screamed into the emptiness of their bedroom, holding onto Louis’s lifeless body like a life raft after a shipwreck, letting out every ounce of frustration and sadness that had settled in him like toxic sediment. He would have done anything to stop this from happening.

 

“We were–” His voice breaks and he can hardly speak, tears choking him, “so happy. Why did it have to be us?”

 

 

-

 

 

After nineteen hours of waiting at the bedside for any sign of reanimation, Harry had migrated to at least make himself a cup of tea for some sense of normalcy. He’d sipped from his mug, staring out the kitchen window until the day turned to night, as if in a trance. Eight painstakingly slow hours pass before he hears foreign movement coming from upstairs, snapping him out of his numb reverie.

 

His mug slips from his hand and crashes to the sink in shattered pieces, but his feet are already propelling him up the staircase. “Lou?! Baby, are you awake?” He throws the bedroom door open so he’s face to face with someone who, for all intents and purposes looks like a bed rumpled Louis, rubbing his eyes with his fist. When he pulls them away to rest at his side, Harry can’t help but gasp.  Seeing an RP on the street was one thing, but seeing _his_ Louis with those clouded over eyes, the irises of blue just about peeking through, his golden complexion drained until he was a muted grey with splotches of veins under his taught skin.

  

Harry abandons every negative thought and lets the sense of relief wash over him. _At least he was awake_. He takes Louis in his arms, hugging him tightly and resting his chin on his shoulder. Hands don’t embrace him back the way he anticipated.  He pulls back and rests a hand on Louis’ cold cheek, “Let’s get you cleaned up, love.”

 

Louis’s eyes widen as if something important had dawned on him. “I love you, Hazza.” He says through lips that are cracked and stained with dried blood from the day prior.

 

“I love you too, Lou.”

 

Harry guides him down to sit in the kitchen chair, and brings a shallow bowl of warm water and a grey washcloth to the table.  He sits across from Louis and tucks a strand of floppy hair behind his ear.

 

“Why are you touching me?”  His eyebrows are drawn tightly together while his features are pinched accusingly.

 

“I have to get the blood off, babe. It’ll just take a second.” He dips the washcloth in the bowl of water and wrings it out, bringing it up to Louis’ lips, dabbing gently.

 

He knocks Harry’s hand out of the way. “No. I meant why are _you_ touching me? I don’t even know you.”

 

Harry’s hand freezes in mid-air, mouth hanging open.

 

“Don’t touch me again.” He orders sternly.

 

“But I have to–”

 

Louis’s on his feet, hovering over him before he can react, their faces inches apart, “I don’t care what you feel like you have to do, because you’re _out of fucking line_. I won’t let some warm blooded asshole treat me like a child.”  He knocks his chair to the floor and starts pacing the room, gripping at his hair.

 

He whips to look back at Harry. “I want to go home,” he demands.  

 

Harry had heard that RP’s would suffer from amnesia once being reanimated, but he never thought it would happen to Louis.  He never thought any of this would happen to Louis in the first place. He can’t even stop the hot tears that catch on his eyelashes and slowly roll down his cheeks.

 

“This _is_ your home, Louis.”

 

He’s looking at his hands that are shaking uncontrollably. “Stop it. Stop! Don’t try and confuse me. You’re just confusing me, and my head hurts from it.” He resembles a trapped animal, and Harry can’t stand to see it unfold in front of him.

 

“Louis.” He says softly. “Sweetheart, this is our home.  I love you, please remember me.”

 

“Just _shut_ _up_!” Louis swipes his hand violently across the counter, knocking a crystal vase full of flowers to the floor. “Don’t follow me.”  He storms out of the room, leaving Harry to stand in the kitchen as alone and confused as he was when Louis first left him. 

 

He sidesteps their favorite crystal vase that’s now shattered on the floor. It lies there for four weeks until Harry has the heart to sweep it up.

 

 

-

 

 

Every morning he wakes up alone, sheets on the other half of the bed still tucked in perfectly, cool to the touch. There’s nothing but the hallow echo of china on the countertop as he moves about the kitchen, frying a single egg, and buttering a piece of toast.  Harry spends more time examining the wood grain of the table than eating his measly breakfast. He always listens though. Listens to the sound of Louis in the living room watching the television, news reels flipping past his glazed over eyes; ones that poke and prod and call people like him, Monsters. Some days he can hear a noise that’s reminiscent of choked sobs. Those days he likes to pop in his ear buds and mull over the paperwork for the lawsuit.

 

Since it happened, Harry had begun living a double life.  A schoolteacher who during the day practices the A-B-C’s with young innocents, and a social activist by night, picking up where Louis had left off.  It’s the least he could have done.  He cared now.  He cared so damn much that he’d stand in front of Supreme Court Justices with his stack of papers, and a photograph of him and Louis on their first date when they were nineteen; fresh faces joyously clinking mugs of hot coffee together. 

 

 

-

 

 

It’s a Saturday when everything changes.

 

Harry’s lying in bed, dreading the moment when he’ll have to open his eyes and remember all over again that he’s half of a whole now. The rain patters insistently against the window frame.  He heaves a tired sigh, trying to send neurological signals to his arms and legs to do something, _anything_ , when the mattress dips behind him and a gentle hand comes to rest on his shoulder. Harry turns his head and the light glints off of the platinum that still rests on Louis’ ring finger.

 

“Is this okay?”  The tone is soft, almost embarrassed, and Harry can almost picture Louis worrying over his bottom lip with his teeth.

 

He’s too afraid his voice will crack if he tries to speak, so he settles for a nod.

 

It breaks the silence that’s settled around them.

 

“You care.” He observes.

 

“Of course I care.”

 

“I know I don’t always remember–”

 

“Don’t, Lou.” Harry wants to spare the conversation. Prevent the painful rehashing of his long-term lover not recognizing him after the reanimation.

 

“I’m still me.” He pleads. “It took me a while, I know, and I’m so sorry. But I remember that you were so sad the day Robin Williams died that you got completely wasted and I had to carry you to bed, and watch _Jack_ until you fell asleep.”

 

Harry turns over to face Louis; eyes scanning his pallid face and locking with his cloudy blue eyes that are shimmering with unshed tears. He runs a thumb against her cheek where it’s cool to the touch as Louis continues.  “I remember that your favorite flower is a rose because it’s your mom’s middle name.  I remember the happiness I felt the day she finally accepted us. I still love you the way I did before this all happened.”

 

“I’m so sorry it happened, but I can remember. You just have to be patient with me.” He says into Harry’s hair, fingers stroking through it the way he always did when Harry would be upset. Things that used to be second nature are rising to the surface and it feels like an anchor is being lifted off his chest, but his eyes are closed shut against the fall of tears.

 

He turns over and buries his head into Louis’ neck, snuffling against the ice-cold skin. “It’s me. _I’m_ sorry. I left you all alone when I thought you weren’t coming back to me. I let you float without a purpose because you hurt me so badly.”

 

“I do remember what I did to you that first night though. And I’ll never forgive myself. If I had a choice you know I wouldn’t have forgotten us.  Not for a second, Hazza.”

 

“I saw the paperwork. You _care_ , and you’re going to beat them.  You’re fighting for the rights of thousands of people.  You’re a beautiful inspiration, and I’m so incredibly proud of who you’ve become.”

 

Silence extended between them before Harry dared to shudder out a breath.

 

“I’m so scared, Lou.”

 

“It won’t be easy.  In fact, it will probably be the hardest years of our lives. We’re going to win this together, though. I’m going to be better, and I’m going to help you win this. I’ll have bad days, yeah, but it’ll never be like the beginning again.  We’re still who we were and I love you more than I did the day you gave me that ring.”

 

Harry let’s out a sob of utter happiness, and if Louis could cry, he bets that he would be crying as well.  He moves to slot his lips against Louis’ for the first time in six months and he finally feels at home. 

 

Louis pulls away slightly, “Now, let’s take down the bastards that did this to us.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> please comment, kudos, and share!
> 
> tumblr: hailsatanstyles


End file.
